


Routine

by afra_schatz



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Dude ranch, M/M, Slice of Life, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Friday evening, there’s a bit of just-this-side-of-clichéd country music to fill the air not much later, and Viggo always has a Yellow Rose this point of the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> Written for savageseraph for the 10th fic exchange. Hope you like it, dear!

It is Friday evening, there’s a band preparing to play, and Viggo put down his order with an inclination of his chin that barely qualifies as a nod.

Karl places a beer on the countertop in front of him without having to ask. He gives Viggo a smile, not the broad toothy one he reserves for female patrons, but the more subdued one, and he taps the counter twice before returning to his tasks.

It’s Friday evening, there’s a bit of just-this-side-of-clichéd country music to fill the air not much later, and Viggo always has a Yellow Rose this point of the week.

Viggo is a man of strict routines and habits, as much as Bernard would have people believe otherwise. According to Bernard, Viggo is a free-spirit, “as close as you can get to Native American without being one”: always off communing with the ponies when he’s not writing poems. Viggo never objects – their partnership has run smoothly for the last two decades because of this. Bernard is the showman, the entertainer for their guests, the Mancunian-miraculously-turned-cowboy oddity that make their dude ranch stand out. His brash charm and Marianne’s cooking take as much credit as (if not more than) Viggo’s knowledge of mountain trails and the horses themselves when it comes to turning city people from one-time-guests to regulars. Viggo is perfectly aware of that.

A short guy nods at the bar stool next to Viggo’s, silent question posed right there. His hair a bit too long, but otherwise he so very obviously fits the profile of lead singer of a country band, even if he hadn’t got his guitar slung over his back. At Viggo’s responding nod, he takes the barstool, carries it toward the stage, and Viggo knows it’ll be another fifteen minutes until the music starts.

Dom likes to joke that that’s the reason no one wears a watch at _White Mountains _: you just have to look what Viggo is doing to know the time, down to the minute, exactly the same, every day. Viggo doesn’t object to that either, even though maybe he should – not because it’s not true, but Dom’s always been a bit too mouthy for a ranch hand, especially one who falls of his horse at least once every week and has a tendency to sleep with guests’ daughters.__

__The bar is filling up, a bit more than usual maybe. Two families currently staying at the ranch linger by the door, tentative nature of their first few steps into the bar tipping everyone off that they aren’t regulars. When they spot Viggo, the slight tension in the shoulders of both husbands vanishes, matching smiles on the wives’ faces appear. They wave in his direction, and he raises a hand in response before Liv sees them to a table._ _

__A couple of done-up young women linger close to the stage, one prettier than the other. Viggo wonders whether there is such a thing as country music groupies. Judging by the long-lashed looks they throw the still preparing singer and guitarist, there must be._ _

__The band is due to start at nine. At five to, the barstool on Viggo’s other side is pulled back, and Sean slides onto it. Karl comes over again, and he and Sean go through their usual exchange –_ _

__Whiskey? – Don’t suppose you finally got beer. – Plenty on tap. – Proper beer? British? – Whiskey it is._ _

__– and Karl laughs, like he always shaking his head as he pours and puts the whiskey on the counter. Sean traces the rim of the glass with his index finger; you’d think it to be the first move of a slow sweet seduction if you didn’t know better. He will leave the whiskey standing there, ignored, for maybe half an hour or so, then down it in one go. His drinking habits are as romantic as a fuck in a back alley._ _

__Sean comes here for the same reason that Viggo does, or so Viggo supposes. They have never really gotten around chatting about it. It’s not that Sean isn’t a talker; he very much is. It’s just that he usually grumbles about something or other that isn’t as good here as it is ‘back home’, meaning some part of Great Britain. Sean has done so ever since he and Dave set up practice here. But that’s been ten years now, too, give or take, so Texas can’t be that bad, Viggo supposes. Still, while Dave’s accent has gradually gone native, was pretty nondescript to begin with, Sean stubbornly sticks to his Yorkshire tongue. People generally don’t mind. They tend to forgive a lot as long as Sean treats their animals (cows and pigs normally; Dave does horses) with the kind of meticulous efficiency he is known for._ _

__The music is pleasant enough, a bit of rock mixed with the usual sound. The long-haired front man’s voice is as smooth as bourbon as he starts with an old favorite about wild horses, what else. Viggo’s hand flexes around his bottle, index and middle finger sending back a dull ache still. Horses don’t have sharp teeth, but their bite still hurts like a fucking bitch._ _

__If Viggo is asked about his past – on one of the trails through the mountains, by someone more interested in chitchat than the view or his allotted pony – he says something or other that isn’t a lie but might as well be borrowed from a country song. A couple of verses at best, then he diverts the attention back to the one who has asked. He is happy to listen with one ear to stories about tanking businesses and pending divorces, about grandchildren and the real estate market. Guests are far more interested in talking about themselves than they are in him._ _

__Now the music is less achey and more might-wanna-get-up-from-your-chair-and-dance. With a smirk and a wink, the singer delivers something about calling all country women, which, considering the fan club (broad smiles, swinging hips), is a bit redundant. Next to Viggo, a smile tugs at Sean’s lips, and he raises his whisky in something like a toast in Viggo’s direction before his attention returns to the stage. To the band. His eyes don’t stray to the pretty blondes and brunettes even once._ _

__Sean and Dave share the same address and don’t have the same last name. But they look alike enough to pass as brothers – half-brothers maybe; that’s what people think they are anyway, and neither Sean nor Dave ever corrected them. Maybe it’s true, too. A perfect synchrony defines all of their actions, whether it’s during routine vaccinations, middle-of-the-night emergencies or one of Marianne’s big friends-and-family dinners . Both are self-assured and competent, blunt when the occasion calls for it, gentle for other reasons. Dave always knows what Sean needs, and that goes both ways._ _

__Could be genetics and upbringing. Could be working side by side for years. Could be something else. If Viggo looked closer, maybe he’d witness telling gestures of tenderness, looks exchanged that would confirm a sort of intimacy brothers don’t share. He might. If he asked, maybe Sean would tell him._ _

__The women have started to dance in front of the stage, inspiring some of the regulars and the teenage daughters of _White Mountains’s_ guests to follow suit. The orders of drinks have slowed down accordingly. Karl ambles over to them again, checkered towel thrown over his shoulder, and rests both elbows on the counter._ _

__You heard about Harry and his loose pigs? he asks, voice low enough to not interfere with the music, but amusement still loud and clear._ _

__Heard he finally cornered them down by the river, Sean replies in very much the same tone. He leans forward when Karl does, snickers quietly all the way through Karl’s version of the chase. To say Viggo heard it differently would be an understatement, but that isn’t a surprise. If faced with the choice between truth and entertainment, Karl’s path has always been preordained._ _

__When Karl finishes, Sean laughs and downs his drink. You’re a fucking liar, he says good-naturedly, and from the front pocket of his plaid shirt, he fishes a crumpled pack of Marlborough Lights. He arches a brow in Viggo’s direction. The same time the first few chords of the next song sound through the speakers, Viggo slides off his stool. He follows Sean outside as the front man sings he’s got something other than whiskey on his mind._ _

__He doesn’t care if people joke about it. Viggo likes his routines and habits for the most part. When it is foaling time – Bernard selling the event to the guests like nothing short of the birth of Christ in terms of miracles – Viggo knows to the hour when a mare is due. It’s a matter of close observation and experience, that’s all, nothing wonder-ful about it. Like the horses, he thinks predictability a good thing. He has helped dozens and dozens of these grasshopper-like little creatures into the world to know._ _

__Outside the bar, the air is chilly. Sean has to cup Viggo’s hand holding the lighter with both of his, so the wind doesn’t blow out the flame. They both lean against the side of Viggo’s truck as they breathe out smoke into the night sky._ _

__As far as habits go, Viggo wishes he could quit tobacco maybe. But he normally doesn’t even notice that he has a cigarette between his lips when he’s rounding up the horses needed for the day, feeds them, waters them, heads out with the first string of guests. So he supposes quitting’s not happening._ _

__His routines are like his jeans and his Tony Lama’s. They may not look too smart, they smell of horse shit, and they don’t fit anyone but him, but they do fit him._ _

__Even through the thick walls and doors, he can tell the music is still upbeat. As the evening progresses, Karl will grow more obviously flirtatious with the women, more boisterous with the men; instinctively compensating for senses dulled by alcohol. Women will come looking for someone to dance with. Sean will decline and so will Dave if he chooses to show, their broad smiles amped up to the max, and no offence will be taken. Viggo, whose no-dancing policy isn’t as strict, will at some point find himself with an arm around a woman’s waist, swaying to the music and making conversation that can be only half heard._ _

__Sean crushes his cigarette under the heel of his boot. As he turns to face Viggo, the Heineken sign’s neon star is directly above his head._ _

__Fancy a game of pool, mate? he asks and nods towards the door of the bar._ _

__It doesn’t really make a difference whether Viggo drives home now or in a couple of hours. The horses stabled under his rooms provide natural heating, but it’s time to get another blanket from the cupboard anyway. As he’ll go through his nightly routines, his mind will be irked by the silence surrounding him. Still he’ll be asleep not two minutes after he switched out the lights._ _

__When he flicks the butt of his cigarette away, it lands in one of the many puddles of the car park’s uneven tarmac, its red glow instantly extinguished._ _

__Sure._ _


End file.
